Nepenthes
by anche
Summary: (Complete) The war is over and Voldemort, not Harry, was the one to stride off the battlefield victorious. Hermione has gone into hiding in Eastern Europe where she is working as an artist. But her cover is blown when an article about her artwork runs in
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

When she dreams, it is always the same. It starts with a feeling of falling, yet she never hits the ground; instead she just opens her eyes in hell.

The battle was nothing like they had thought it would be. There was no order, no neat lines, no clear loyalties. Causes were betrayed, friends double-crossed and new alliances formed in the space of a second. But by far the worst was that it was impossible to keep track of anyone in the turmoil. She fought without knowing who was dead. She fought because in that moment there was nothing else in the world.

Hermione remembered the beginning of the last ill-fated battle. In every dream, the pain is just as fresh as that day, maybe worse because she is robbed of the blessed numbing shock which encompassed her that week. Their first warning that something was wrong came when Professor Lupin disappeared hours before a full moon. Hermione would see him again, but it would be on different sides of the battle line. He would never again appear to anyone in human form. Voldemort's call to the dark beasts was simply to strong for even the truest of hearts.

The Death Eaters had acted quickly and quietly when they moved, kidnapping Ron and demanding no less than Harry in exchange. Harry and Dumbledore had disappeared into his office for hours, while Hermione was left to pace the common room, the library, any space she could find. Harry returned pale and silent. Dumbledore went to Voldemort's encampment alone. His body came back broken and bloody a few hours later. Harry then began to pack; no one asked about Ron.

A scream tore from her own throat; she was back on the battlefield. Snape lay dead in the dust behind them, slain by the curse Bellatrix Lestrange had aimed for Harry's heart. With grim satisfaction, Harry then slew the murder of Sirius. Harry's voice, pronouncing the unforgivable curse, chilled Hermione. So this was what Dumbledore sacrificed himself for: he died to give Harry time to perfect the one art no 17-year-old boy should be asked to learn. She wondered, now, if it had been worth it. If maybe, there had been some other way.

Tossing in her sleep, she fought to awaken before the moment arrived: the moment when the fairytale broke, the moment when it all went completely and finally wrong. Some Muggles hold to a theory, grown out of the chaos theory, that for every action, every choice, a thousand worlds are created. Hermione did not long for thousands of worlds just one. Just one world, where the decisions about to be reenacted in her sleeping consciousness could be reversed, undone, expunged. A different world where the dead got up and led lives filled with laughter. A world that still had Harry in it.

After Bellatrix died, Harry, turned to Hermione and pointed towards Molly Weasley, who was about to be over come by three Death Eaters. Hermione rushed to aid her, but the attack never came. The wind had died, everyone on the field fell still as Harry and Voldemort circled each other, sizing the other up. If any words were spoken between the two Hermione never heard them, but she always imagined they were there.

Nor did she see the sneak attack from Draco: stupid, shifty, arrogant, and as it turned out, brave Draco. Draco, in the final critical moment, broke ranks with his father and the Death Eaters to physically throw himself at Voldemort, breaking the Dark Lord's attention and giving Harry his shot. Or at least, that is what Hermione supposed he had planned. Only somehow, Voldemort managed to see or sense him coming, maybe a reflection of the movement in the glasses Harry never gave up. Whatever the cause, at the precise moment Draco launched at him, the Dark Lord turned. Twisting the boy's form in the air, he placed Draco between himself and Harry. To have a clear aim at the Dark Lord, all Harry needed to do was send a curse and disable the boy who single handily had made his school years torture. But Harry didn't do it. He just stood there as Voldemort, sneering, broke Draco's neck and unleashed the Avada Kedavra's green light at him. Harry barely had his wand raised before the curse hit. As he fell to the ground, his glasses snapped and lay half-submerged in a pool of blood, mud, and worse.

She always wakes from the dream screaming. "Four years, Crookshanks," she murmured to the ginger cat on her window ledge, "he has been in power for four years today." Wearily, her head fell back against the pillow.

TBC


	2. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"So, Miss James, you spent some time in the Muggle United States, I understand. Can you tell my readers something about that? It must have been very challenging to adapt to such crude artistic methods," said the middle-aged, round wizard with an overly bright smile.

"Hum... oh yes I was in West Virginia for a little over a year," with tremendous effort, Hermione pulled her attention back to the reporter before her. He was scribbling furiously, periodically shooting her looks of pain and exaggerated frustration. She supposed he was feeling a little put out, but she had emphatically forbidden the use of a Quick Quotes Quill. This was, most likely, the reason behind the questions emphasizing her connection to Muggles, a dangerous connection to say the least. "What I did was take the basic art and improve it through magic. Using a transfiguration spell of my own authorship... and don't think I am going to give away all my secrets," Hermione added with what she hoped was a charming, flirtatious smile, "I managed to get the effects and... well, it would be easier if I showed you. If you will permit me?"

"Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful Miss James! What a treat for my readers! I am really so glad that you agreed to this interview," he gushed, apparently forgetting or at least forgiving the ban on his Quick Quotes Quill."This will be a great start for the new Magical Arts and Culture page in the Sunday Prophet. Yes indeed, the reclusive Jane James not only gives an interview, but a demonstration, yes indeed."

As she set her hands to the wheel, everything else faded somewhat. She was vaguely

aware that he was still chattering on about the story, but all that was secondary. Absently, she brushed away a few rebellious curls of hair, not noticing the flash of a camera, and then she began. Humming the spell to herself, she guided the clay as it began to bend and move beyond all laws of gravity into an elegant impossible form. Strange, she knew that all her brilliance and book smarts would be put aside, yet as the magic flowed from her fingertips, she could find a kind of freedom. McGonagall would be disappointed in her, but McGonagall and all who could hold her accountable were dead. Here she had control; here she could create beauty even in a world such as this. She tried not to dwell on regret. What good was regret?

The second flash of light brought her out of her reverie. At first she did not comprehend what it was. In the second that it took the pieces to fit into place she was in a rage.

"I told you, no pictures! How dare you violate my wishes in my own home!" The wheel and clay tumbled down onto the stone floor. "You will give me that camera and leave this building at once!"

"There, sweetheart, it will be all right. No harm in a picture. We hardly got your face at all, promise," softly drawled the reporter, all the while slowly moving back towards the door. He had safely concealed the offending camera in his robes and was now looking quite pleased with himself. "Besides, I am not so sure what you are so worked up about. We will not give out your address, and you are over an hour broom ride from Prague in perfect weather." Hermione had by now recovered her wand and was following him out the building, with a definitely threatening air. "Speaking of Prague, I really must be going if I am to make it back before the deadline. Thank you for the interview. I will make sure you are owled a copy."

"Argg!" Hermione helped the door to slam after his retreating back before she slumped down onto the floor. "Well, Crookshanks, I should have known better than to deal with the Daily Prophet again. Why ever did I allow Violet Greystone to talk me into the article? You would think that the cut she gets as my agent would be quite enough!" On guard for more flying objects the tabby had climbed onto Hermione's lap, where she was absently petting him. "There really is nothing we can do about it now, is there? Hope the light was too bad for any of the images to come out properly. People will see what they want to see, they always do. I just hope no one will see... well, me. But you missed your dinner while I was talking to that buffoon! Come on; let's see what we've got then." But despite her words, a knot of worry had lodged in the back of Hermione's mind.

"Wormtail! Get! In! Here! I swear, it is bad enough trying to keep the Muggles from suspecting anything without you running around with that utterly wasted silver arm!" Lucius never raised his voice nor took his eyes from his breakfast, yet each word fell like a blow to Wormtail, causing a hot spike of anger slice through him. "Oh, and Wormtail, I do hope you remembered to bring my Sunday Prophet."

"Here it is. I don't know why you can't just get it owled to you like everyone else. But I don't know how you can stand being around Muggles all day either," he added with a snide smile. His blow hit the mark. In a flash, Lucius had sprung up and grabbed him by a grubby shirt collar.

"You know very well that as the Muggle Prime Minister, I have appearances to keep up. And you know the importance of the position I hold, given the master's interests in the Muggle War. I would think you would speak more wisely," hissed Lucius.

"And I know very well that you would be Minister of Magic right now if your son had not switched sides in the final hour," spat Wormtail, thinking himself extremely brave. He hit the wall, knocking down one of the strangely still Muggle paintings before he registered being thrown. The pain caused his head to spin, and for a moment he thought he would utterly disgrace himself and pass out.

"Lucius, Lucius, I am surprised at you. And displeased, you know how I feel about people treating my things poorly," said a cold voice from the fireplace. Lucius, his arm raised mid-curse, stopped dead and grew pale. "Sit, eat your breakfast before it gets cold," chided the voice. Lucius practically ran to obey. "I want a full report from the Muggle War; things are progressing along I presume? Germany will fall next?"

"Yes, my lord, of course. And my deepest apologies," murmured Lucius while trying hard not to see the joyful look on Wormtail's face as he crawled towards a plush green armchair. Once reaching it, he did not sit but instead rested his head against the seat, as if the act of climbing into a chair might be too much for him.

"Oh, and Wormtail, do stop provoking Lucius. He does have a point; your arm is a little conspicuous. I thought we had talked about a spell to conceal it." There was a dangerous note in Voldemort's voice; it was never a good sign when he was being this congenial. Wormtail cringed.

"But... master, it burns so."

"Oh, stop whining and stand up, you disgust me," snapped Voldemort. He opened his mouth to speak more but, to his shock, was interrupted by Lucius's cry.

"Gods, Granger!" Instantly, all attention in the room snapped back to Lucius, who had risen to his feet while staring at a page from the Prophet.

"Granger... Granger, you mean the boy's Mudblood?" Voldemort's voice seemed to almost purr at the prospect of the last and infamous member of the DA being unearthed.

"Yes, my lord, it appears she is living near Prague under an assumed name, an artist or artisan of some sort. Still, not much to look at is she," sneered Lucius, handing the paper to the hand now protruding from the marble fireplace, his composure quite regained.

"You always were overly caught up with looks, Lucius. You miss so much..." Voldemort turned back, his eyes quickly taking in the article and accompanying picture of a young woman sitting at a potter's wheel, absently brushing strands of her bushy brown hair away from her face. "Ah... so it is Miss Granger, after all this time, the brains behind the boy. Is it really any wonder she is the last to be found... but you have slipped this time, little one? I believe could capitalize on that..." Both Lucius and Wormtail looked slightly uncomfortable to be overhearing the Dark Lord's murmurings.

"Do you want me to send a group to dispose of her?" asked Wormtail.

"No, I believe I might have other plans for her. After all, we must see if she really is, what was it they all said... 'the cleverest witch of her age'. I wonder what she is capable of."

"Surely, you don't actually mean to employ... I mean she is a Mudblood!" said Lucius, looking utterly aghast at the very idea.

"There are spells Lucius, spells, one such as you could never even dream of reading off a page, let along wielding. But she... she just might be able to assist me... just maybe. Wormtail, attend me now!" snapped Voldemort. "And fetch an owl on your way to my chambers."

With a slight pop he had left the fireplace, not even pausing to acknowledge Wormtail's clumsy bow. "Still an errand-boy are we," sneered Lucius.

"Go play with your Muggles, Prime Minister," spat Wormtail before he hurried out of the room.


	3. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The owl's arrival woke her up just before dawn. She was not really surprised to see it. Ever since that ill-fated article was published, owls had been bombarding her at all times of the day. True, most were commissions, she had not been so busy since NEWTs, but really, she thought, this was getting a little ridiculous. Still, somehow she knew that Violet would skin her alive should she decide to go on a long-term vacation just now. Sighing, she pulled a slightly tattered blue shawl around her to ward against the gray chill of the morning. She was awake, there really was no help for it, so she might as well do something useful.

By the time the tea kettle was happily boiling and Hermione has turned her thoughts back to the small brown owl at the window, he had been joined by a larger pompous-looking white one. With a pang, she thought of Hedwig. Memories of Hogwarts had been intruding into her daily life more and more often, it seemed. Shaking her head, she waved her wand and the window opened.

"Here we go," she murmured collecting the letters and sending the owls back on their way. Throughout the morning, she collected an assortment of letters, notes, and even two small packages. She put them all aside unopened, to wait her lunch break, when she would look at them properly.

She was having trouble with a piece. Although the magic danced from her fingertips and the image of what she wanted to create burned brightly in her mind, she just could not seem to get the clay to do what she wanted. So she was in a less than charming mood when she finally allowed a break and sat down to lunch and the morning's mail. The first two letters were more commission requests; the second from a wizard who was signed himself as a prince no less. She decided not to accept that commission; that last thing she wanted was more publicity. The third letter proved to be from an overconfident young wizard offering himself as an apprentice.

"Fat chance," snorted Hermione before she murmured the charm to send the letter up in a puff of smoke and fire. "Really, I swear you claim to be a recluse and every arrogant young fool thinks he or she is just the one to be your chosen protégé and your public face to the world! Ah Crookshanks, we don't need any of them do we? Fine, stay over there by the door and ignore me, silly cat. I don't want to share any of my milk anyway."

When not even the enticement of milk seemed to move the cat, she turned back to her stack of mail. The corner of a card sticking out half-way down the pile caught her attention. It was made from an extremely heavy cream paper and bore a ragged edge, which had been dyed a rich black. Her eyes widened and a slight gasp escaped her lips as she scanned the elegant script.

She was so absorbed in the letter that she did not notice the tall figure standing just behind her. Embarrassed by her lack of response he cleared his throat again. "Excuse me Miss Gran... James, Jane James?"

With a startled cry, Hermione rounded on the disheveled young wizard. Before he could utter a word of explanation, her wand was pressed into the hollow of his throat.

"Who are you, and what in the name of all the gods who ever walked are you doing here?" she asked, her voice frosty.

"Miss James," he started swallowing loudly. "I have been looking for you for years. Ever since Neville... You are her aren't you? You're Hermione Granger."

"You still have not told me who you are." Hermione pointed out, once it became clear that her was not going to continue. She was surprised by how level her voice sounded. She had not released the pressure on her wand or, she was sure, it would be shaking in her hand. He knew her.

"Paul. I am Paul Listman. Please, we need you. I think we could have a chance if you would only listen to me. Please, just hear me out, I won't betray you. Please."

Slowly, Hermione lowered her wand. He would think it was his earnest plea which had won her over, but she knew better. As he stood there in his old robe with the barely-concealed tattered sleeves and fierce desperation, he looked more like Ron than her heart could take, despite his brown hair and swarthy skin.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, him already turning into the next room.

"Hum... yeah, thanks," he answered. His surprise at the abrupt change of topic and tone was evident in his voice.

"Sit, sit," her voice instructed briskly from inside the dim kitchen. She was glad to have the distance between them, no point in letting him see the tears she felt threatening. "You mentioned Neville Longbottom. I am assuming you are with what is left of the resistance?"

"Yes, I was in Paris when he fell. It was a terrible day. They say it will go down as the last of the Dark Lord's wars for Western Europe, but we all think of it as the first battle of the resistance. From Neville's mistakes we will launch the Wars of the Resistance," he spoke while craning his neck, trying to get a better glimpse of the legendary best friend of Harry Potter now that she was no longer threatening him.

"Yet there have been no more 'Wars of Resistance', as you called them." It came out harsher than she had expected, but it hurt her more than she would have thought to hear Neville's fight and death spoken of so callously. After Harry fell, Molly Weasley had grabbed her, and a portkey was shoved into her numb hands. Mercifully, she does not remember anything else until waking to find Neville had also escaped and was offering her a restorative potion. He said she had been raving half-mad about Voldemort's eyes finding her and burning. She left with her parents for the States the next day. It was there that she heard of Neville death in Paris. The scattered remains of the old Dumbledore's Army joined with the few members of the Order and the remaining Aurors. Uniting under Neville's leadership, they made their stand in the streets of Paris herself. And they died there. To the best of her knowledge, Hermione was the last of those old groups to draw breath. This, she knew, was why a young idealistic wizard called Paul was now sitting in her study waiting for her to bring him tea and hope.

With a sigh, she realized two truths simultaneously: the tea was boiling, and he had started talking about his glorious resistance again.

_At least the boy has passion_, she mused as she brought the steaming water and mugs into the study, _a little overzealous but he defiantly believes in his cause_. For a moment, she allowed a small, wistful smile; 'the boy' as she thought of him, was barely two years younger than her twenty-two years. When did she start to feel old?

Suddenly she stopped cold. Just a few centimeters from his left hand sat the letter she had been reading when he walked in. Its black edging seemed to absorb all light, like a dark hole in her room. Under no circumstances could she allow him to see that letter.

"I know that it is quaint, but I much prefer a cup of tea made in the muggle fashion. Something subtle about the flavor changes when you use magic, I think. Plus I love to watch the color change as it gets steep. Would you like to see?" Carefully, she set the glass down on his right side, hoping she was masking the panic she felt.

"Oh... hum... yes, thank you." Watching him carefully, she moved into the chair closest to the letter. Making sure he was politely looking into his glass of tea, she smoothly slipped the letter into a fold in her robe.

"Hum...? I'm sorry, I thought I heard something, what did you say?" Hermione asked with a self-deprecating smile.

"Oh, I didn't hear anything. Do you want me to go check it out?" With a movement from Hermione's hand he sat back down. "Well, I was saying that we really need to act fast now. We have spies inside that say his most recent attempt failed, but he is funneling all of his energies into achieving true immortality. It is only a matter of time, now.

With a start, Hermione realized she was unconsciously fingering the note in her pocket. Disgusted with herself, she clasped both hands in her lap so tightly her fingernails bit into her skin.

"Once he becomes truly immortal, no one will be able to touch him, or restrain him. Not a muggle blade or the strongest spell will have any effect. It will all be his and all dependent on his whim, or boredom," whispered Paul, as if talking about such a future was too horrible to speak aloud.

"Yes, I see," she said with a touch more irritation than she actually felt. She felt a numb and worried. "But what does this have to do with me. No, I see that too. What exactly are you asking of me?"

"Help us. Your name alone is power, but your intelligence, you skill, is the missing weapon we need. You could find the chinks in his armor and you could figure out how to exploit them. I am not saying you have to be a public figure, or even a leader, although both can be yours if you wish. Just help us, no one but I need ever know where you are or what name you are living under. Just let me say 'Hermione Granger is working with us', and let her brilliance really be working with us," he said the words coming in an intense rush which Hermione allowed to wash over her.

"I will think on it," she murmured.

"That is all I can ask of you today," he said, gently patting her hand, relieved that the conversation was finally under his control. "I have bothered you for far to long and will go. If you wish to get in touch with me, for any reason, owl Pierre LeBon."

"Yes, thank you. I will remember." He was gone before she could rise to say goodbye. For a long time, she sat staring into the empty space he had inhabited. She realized a part of her had been waiting for him to come. She had been waiting for one side or the other to come and find her. She always had known that this house, this career, was a temporary sanctuary at best.

The shadows had gathered in the corners of her room before she moved to take the note out of her robe. In the dim light, only the signature was clearly visible:

Regards,

Lord Voldemort.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank You to Fightstar for the beta job!

June 7

Dear Miss Granger,

I must confess that I am not surprised by your failure to respond to my last letter; disappointed, but not surprised. Still, you are thinking about the spell I outlined, I know that you are. Just as I know how a part of you desires nothing so much as to share the answer you have devised with someone, anyone. Tell me. What use is your intelligence, your destiny, if you keep all your brilliance to yourself, telling only a spoiled cat? Dazzle me. You can't sit in your hideout playing with dirt and water forever. Eventually it will tear you apart.

I await your reply.

Regards,

Lord Voldemort

June 12

Dear Sir,

If I were attempting the spell I would try modifying the pronunciation to an archaic form of Etruscan instead of the more typical Latin ending. I would consult _Unveiling Enchantment _but I do not have a copy here to check so that may be the wrong text referral. If all still failed me, I would try combining Portus with Incendio and Imperio, since you have no fear in using it. I believe a melding of those three spells should give you a result that, with minor modification, should mimic your desired outcome.

But you, I am sure, know this already. Why do you ask me?

Respectfully,

Hermione

June 18

Dear Miss Granger,

Truly your stubborn loyalty to your fallen cause is a testament to your house. Even in submission you are a true Gryffindor. But there is no more Hogwarts as you knew it, is there? The old house rivalries have finally been put to rest. Dumbledore would be pleased after all.

There is no shame in accepting the change that has already occurred. Indeed it often seems to take more courage to accept one's losses and move on, to protect one's self and one's interest and rise above the situation. But these are Slytherin virtues I am extolling and they may sound repugnant to you.

You ask why I wrote to you; yes I knew of the Etruscan pronouncing and have consulted several books, _Unveiling Enchantment_ being one, although not as helpful as _The Distant Mystique_. I did not, however, think to combine those three spells you mentioned. My compliments on devising such a remedy. You have great fame as being a person of unique mind... and you are wasting it.

Let us play a game. We will determine what the stakes are later; it is more fun that way. I will move first.

You avoid mirrors at all cost. When you happen to catch your reflection, you cringe because you are forever holding yourself up against who you thought you would be. You have not become who you wanted to be, who you still could be, thus you have been waiting these past four years for the chance to prove to the world and yourself that you still are a person of unique disposition. But no one sees you, child, and you are alone.

Now you tell me something.

Regards,

Voldemort

June 21

Dear Sir,

You evaded my true question nicely, but then I am witnessing a master am I not? I would not have thought of you as one who stooped to games with simple artists, artists of non-magical birth at that. That is what your analysis failed to see. Oh you saw much, I will not deny it, but you failed to see that I have found sanctuary. My "dirt and water" does not accuse me and my days pass quite nicely. I need for no one.

You ask me to tell you something and I will. You are still a mortal man, I wonder if on some level you will not always be. Still, you have not achieved immortality yet; that is why you write to me and that is why we are playing these games. You wish for me to help you unlock the mystery of the magic you can't seem to find. You temporarily stepped down from power allowing your lackeys to run everything so that you can single-mindedly pursue your goal. But I wonder what you will do with out the goal. All the driving forces of your life are leaving you. No Harry to be you archenemy and then no immortality to chase. What will you do when you are faced with an empty eternity? I was able to find solace in the mundane, but I do not think you will be.

Sincerely,

Hermione

June 25

Dear Hermione,

Do not hide behind the title of artist with me, I know you and I know your true name. Trust me. Yes, I have an ulterior motive, and if you had not figured that out by now, I would have grossly overestimated your intelligence. False modesty is overrated, my dear.

Your days pass nicely do they, but what of your nights? Do you sleep well Hermione? Do you rest easy with your ghosts?

As to your claims that I am merely waiting until I assume power, well it is easy to see that you would not have lasted long in Slytherin tower. I do not want the Minister job. Really child, can you see me sitting in that office listening to every minor complaint? It is better to be the power behind the thrown, as it were. Better to be the shadowy presence in the back of the council chambers, whose word is unquestioned law. I exercise a power unlike the sham ministry mortals set up. It's better to be the one pulling the strings than to be bogged down by the paper work of day to day life. And there will always be a lackey, as you so aptly put it, to do my paper work for me.

How will I fill my eternity? I am surprised by you, surely you know that there will always be something more to learn. I will fill my eternity quite nicely, thank you for your concern though. But maybe it was not me you were truly referring to? Worried about an empty future, Hermione? Come to me. We could learn much and I would give you meaning again. Nothing will be expected or required of you beyond doing what comes most naturally to you. You could learn to trust me. It is disheartening to picture you alone with a book in your studio, no one to argue with but the wind. But I should know better than to tempt such an exemplarily Gryffindor with such things. It is a pity though.

Ever,

Voldemort

June 27

Dear Sir,

True, my life did not take the course I set out in my girlhood, but then whose life really does that? Not even yours turned out exactly as you planned, I would imagine. You speak of my wasting talents and learning but are you not referring to yourself as well. What are you playing at with your Death Eaters and Dark Revels? Yes, I can see the need for them when you were fighting against order and light, but why keep it up now? You waste your talents with your petty torments as surely as I do mine with my escapism.

Do you ever regret the path you chose? I know you will never tell me if you do. And here it is my turn to speak of trust, for neither your pride, nor your justified lack of trust in me, will allow that answer to be set in ink. Still, regret, I have come to believe, is part of the human condition so I must think that you do. Regret and also being bound to our roles. I can not hold the memories I have inside me and give a passing thought to such selfish temptations as you describe.

Take care,

Hermione

June 29

My dear Hermione,

You already have given it more than a passing thought, or I would not have asked.

Yes, sometimes even I regret the choices I have made, but I do not regret the path I walk. There was never a choice. Mine is the path of destiny and we all finally bow to her wishes. And that is what I am working against. To win immortality is to also break free of man's wretched destiny of death. That is why I sought such power, to break out of fate. Can you not understand this?

You are surprised I answered your question. I have nothing to hide; I am beyond such things. And I could raise you to be as well. No more hiding in the shadows; no more dinners eaten by yourself as an afterthought; no more ideas scribbled on scraps of paper only to be thrown away, for the sole reason that you know they would consume you if you did not get them out. You could act on any idea which came into your head. I would put all you would need in your service. I would give it all to you if you could only ask.

I am afraid I might miss your next letter, or at least be delayed in my reply. Duties of state call. Dolohov is something of a disappointment as Minister of Magic. You remember Dolohov don't you? I believe he almost killed you once. Ah but why live in the past? Lucius should be Minister. He would have made a quite nice one I believe, but then living with Lucius and his love of ceremony and pomp would grow tiring. For Friday he has orchestrated a review of the troops, of all things, which he would like me to attend.

Lackeys!

Reply quickly if you will.

Ever,

Voldemort

July 1

To Pierre Le Bon,

Sir. I am writing you with most fortuitous news. I have heard from a friend, known to you by reputation only, that there is to be a military parade on July 5. However, I am a little unsure as to the reliability of this bit on news. The friend seemed over eager to tell, but I believe there may be a reason for you to want to attend and bring several of your friends. This may prove the type of day we were hoping for. One not to be missed.

Hope all is well.

J. James

July 1

Dear Voldemort,

I did not expect such a frank response to my more rhetorical question. Trust is a strange thing. We speak of it as if it is an either or deal, I trust you or I don't, but really there are levels to how much we trust. I wonder where I stand with you?

A military parade? I am afraid that your news took me by surprise. What ever are you doing allowing yourself to be drug into a common muggle military review? I am assuming you will be an honored spectator and no more. Indeed, the thought of you strolling down the street, being followed by a brass band is farther than I can stretch my imagination! If you do go, be careful with yourself.

Take care,

Hermione

July 3

Dearest Hermione,

This will be the last time we correspond, I fear, as I assume I will be seeing you on the battlefield tomorrow. Surely you are not surprised, I have a very good network of spies and so I know all about "Pierre's" plans and your little, expected, betrayal. I must say I was taken aback by your concern for my safety though. Did you think to subtly warn me away? Touching.

Ah, but then it seems you may have formed a bond. Notice how easily, by your second letter no less, you were comparing yourself to me. And why should that not be, we were both the brightest and the best of our generation. If only you had been in Hogwarts with me, what a pair we would have made. Ours was a rapidly forming relationship, was it not, almost destiny, and we did have more than our share of digs, but I hope you do not feel ill used now that it has come to the end.

And besides, who knows what the morrow may bring. I will wish you the same care you wished me.

Till then,

Voldemort

After it was all over, when the ragged band, if you could call so few a band, of remaining resistance fighters struggled into Hermione's cottage looking for sanctuary, they found Voldemort's last letter lying where it had been dropped, next to a puddle of wax and an icy-cold mug of Darjeeling tea.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank You to Fightstar for the beta job! Voldemort quotes Homer when talking about Nepenthes.

Her arm was bruising. By tomorrow there would be finger shaped marks covering her upper arm if she did not get a chance to heal them soon. Assuming she would be alive tomorrow. No real hope in healing them anytime soon either.

The Death Eaters who held her arms were moving fast. Technically, they were ministry guards and not Death Eaters at all, but mask or no mask she would always call them so. Voldemort's thugs. Why didn't they just kill her? They had not even disarmed her. True, both arms were held so tightly that she could not reach the wand in her pocket, but still they must know it was there. Why this charade?

She had rushed out of her house the moment the last letter from Voldemort sunk in. He knew. She had been nothing but a pawn and worse she had sent Paul to his death. Cursing herself for never completely mastering the skill of apparating, she had flown to the nearest floo port. Splinching oneself, especially when apparating to a secret rebel camp, did not seem prudent in this political climate. She arrived in London with the dawn.

But she never made it to Paul's camp. Walking down the deserted alley, that held the secret entrance to the rebel camp, she was reminded of just why Muggles avoided such places. They were creepy and full shadows, where who knows what could be hiding.

When the hand fastened itself around her arm she shrieked.

"Hush girl," a rough voice hissed in her ear. Another figure appeared at her other side, claiming the right arm as well. "You need to come with us. We know that your friend is hiding in the building there and if you don't want to see the whole thing go up in flames you'll come easy. This way there is always the chance that he will chicken out and live to fight tomorrow."

The laughter, which followed that statement, chilled Hermione almost as much as the feeling of a wand pressed discretely into her back. Silently, she turned and allowed herself to be led away, but not before dropping one of her business cards onto the damp stones. It was a thin hope, but maybe Paul would see it and suspect something wrong. She had to do something for hope.

Yet, as her captors kept walking whatever hope she had died. Her mind rose up in rebellion and she saw Paul lying bloody and dead in a clump of flowers. That garden would not bloom again. But that was not Paul at all, it was Fred Weasley who died in a flower garden, miles away from this London street. She shook her head trying to clear it oh the past.

Mistaking her movement for fight, the man on her left gave her arm a violent shake. "Be still!" The wand at her back pressed harder and Hermione sighed and walked on with her ghosts.

After what seemed like a lifetime but which could not have been longer than an hour, they stopped in a doorway. It looked like any empty store front door except for the lack of dust on the handle. Clearly, this door was being used.

Muttering what sounded suspiciously like Alohomora, one of the men opened the door and led Hermione through. The inside looked like nothing so much as a hallway in a Muggle luxury hotel. Warm peach light filtered down onto cream colored walls, broken every so often by silent and shut doors. Tucked into empty corners, elegant tables stood backs to the wall, proudly displaying vases of flowers or an antique lamp. Under her feet, Hermione noticed an imitation Persian rug, run through with red and gold and green. The only things missing were numbers on the doors. Counting in her head she noticed that they stopped in front of door number 13, but the door which had brought them here had no distinguishing marks anymore and even with this information Hermione did not trust herself to find it again

After giving three sharp raps one of her guards turned the knob and held the door open for her. As soon as she stepped through it swung shut leaving her alone. Cautiously, Hermione pulled out her wand before turning from the door to inspect the room

If the outside resembled a Muggle hotel, this room looked like she imagined Galileo's quarters must have. It was stone, circular, and rather small. It had a large window cut into the ceiling looking up into the sky. Two chairs and a wooden table, draped in dark cloth upon which two books and several stacks of paper were placed, stood under the window and a plush brown rug covered half of the floor. A fireplace near where she stood had burned down only giving off a minimal glow. If the window was opened she was sure the room would be flooded with light, but the dark shutters were pulled resolutely shut.

At first she thought the room was empty. Robed and hooded, the figure blended into the shadows so well that, had he not moved she might never have seen him.

"You," she breathed, letting her wand hand fall limp to her side.

"Hermione, we are well-acquainted strangers, are we not?" He answered with a slight ironic bow, although his features remained hidden in the darkness of his hood.

"What are you doing here? Why... hum... I mean... shouldn't you be out crushing a harmless rebellion?" she asked in a rush. Her face, which had drained of its color with her original shock now flushed a deep pink as she struggled to make her posture perfectly straight and defiant.

"No. I came for you."

"Me?"

"Yes, I am afraid your little rebellion was not really enough of a challenge to warrant my actual presence. Lucius will handle it. I was more interested in finding you." Holding out his hand he slowly moved towards her.

She stared at the hand, its long fingers, its pale skin, for a moment longer then usual courtesy allowed before, finally, placing her own in its offered grasp. As soon as her skin touched his he changed the position allowing his fingers to twine shockingly, intimately with her own. Gently, he pulled her towards him, positioning them under the window.

"I thought we had a date on the battlefield?" she asked to cover how flustered she felt.

"I grew impatient. Besides, wars have uncertain outcomes and even a "Do not harm" order does not forgo all accidents."

"You would not enjoy the risk?"

"Only if I had stacked the outcome."

His eyes were dark but deeply red, like blood settling in pools, and they bore into her, demanding that she look, refusing to let her look away, not even when she heard the door open again. Not even when he spoke.

"Wormtail, bring it here." He turned then breaking eye contact and all of her fears and doubts came crashing in. Twisting away from him, he held her hand firm, yet she strained enough to catch a glimpse through the shutters on the window. Surely that could not be twilight already.

"Hermione", he said with a warning tone in his voice. Firmly, he pulled her back towards him. With a gasp, she felt her hip painfully bump against the corner of the table. In a way she was glad for it, the pain cleared her head a little and brought her back to the fact that this was real.

He must have seen something of this inner struggle in her eyes for he put his other hand on her shoulder steadying her for a moment before speaking.

"You have heard of the writer Homer, I assume?"

Mutely, she nodded.

"Did you know he was a wizard? Not a very great one, although he has been very useful. His books, mere poetry and history to Muggles, hold the secrets for some of the strongest potions the ancients knew. Do you know of Nepenthes?"

"No, I do not," she whispered.

"Ah it is one of the finest potions: 'a drug to lull all pain and anger, and bring forgetfulness of every sorrow. Whoso should drink a draught thereof, when it is mingled in the bowl, on that day he would let no tear fall down his cheeks, not though his mother and his father died, not though men slew his brother or dear son with the sword before his face, and his own eyes beheld it.' According to the legend, it was this potion Helen of Troy would offer her guests, a great gift don't you think? And some say, this was what Paris gave to her to make her his. It is a potion which allows one to forget their burden of memory and to escape from their ghosts. It is a potion to make you free."

Despite herself, Hermione was letting his voice ensnare her again. It wrapped around her mind and drew her to him, even as the words intrigued her intellect. _How easy_ the voice seemed to hiss to her unconsciousness: _how easy it would be to just stop fighting. Just to give in._

The rush of cold air on her hand surprised her. For a moment she found herself staring at it completely disoriented. Of course Voldemort had just dropped her hand to pour a dark liquid from the flash Wormtail had brought into a cup, but for a moment she had felt truly lost with out that contact.

Turning back to her, Voldemort carefully placed the simple wooden cup into her hands, but he left his own cupped around them. "You said to me once," he murmured his voice low and insidious; "that you could not hold the memories you carry inside you and would give a passing through to my offer. Well I am changing my offer. Drink deep, my child, and come to me."

His eyes had caught hers again, yet even now he was not quite close enough for her to make out more than a shadow of his features under the hood. She lifted the cup to her lips, his hands following her gesture, but stopped just before tasting.

"Paul?"

"He is dead;" the voice was soft now, caressing even as it spoke tragedy. "You were right when you noted the coming twilight, in this room time moves as I will and the battle has already been fought and lost."

A strange emotion flickered in Hermione's eyes, regret and resignation but also relief. Slowly she took a sip of the potion.

The sound of her wand hitting the stone floor startled Wormtail. He had been standing at the doorway, not wanting to stay but not yet released from his master's presence. At the noise he glanced back at the pair. Voldemort gently took the cup from her hands and seemed to be considering something he read in her eyes. Throwing back his hood and smiling in a way that caused Wormtail to cringe, he looped his arm around Hermione's waist and lowered his head to claim her mouth.

Wormtail decided he need not wait to be formally released and scampered through the door. But before leaving, he turned and cast one last look over his shoulder at the embracing couple silhouetted in the dying firelight.

He paused to hear the door click closed behind him before he made his way back out onto the London street.

Fin

Thank you for sticking with me this long guys. Sorry about the huge break in updates. It is done. I also want to thank everyone who read this and especially thank everyone who reviewed, you guys are great!


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